


It's the Great Pumpkin, Xander

by Calacious



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Charlie Brown - Fandom
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Fluff and Angst, Halloween, Kind of a crossover with It's The Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown, M/M, Magic of love, Spike and Angel are daddies, The Great Pumpkin is real, Time Travel, Wishing, alternative universe, praying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-08-29 15:08:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8494684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calacious/pseuds/Calacious
Summary: When he's six years old, Xander prays to the Great Pumpkin. Years later, his prayers are answered.





	1. Prologue: Whispered on the Wind

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in the works for awhile. It was going to be a Christmas prayer, but then I watched, "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown," and I thought, why not? 
> 
> Please let me know if you like this crazy little thing, and please forgive any and all errors. It is not perfect. Much as I'd like to be, I am not perfect. And don't mind the time travel, or magic...please.

At six years old, Alexander Lavelle Harris understood that life was not fair, and that people didn't always keep their promises. He was also well versed in pain and fear, and disappointment was never really very far away. He'd learned how to look after himself at a very young age, and how to sidestep a drunken fist aimed in his direction.   
  
Alexander LaVelle Harris knew that little boys like him never really got what they wanted for birthdays or Christmas, or Halloween, no matter how good they were, but that didn't stop him from hoping and wishing, which is why, late on Halloween, well after all the trick-or-treaters had gone home were safely tucked in bed, the whimsical Great Pumpkin, who'd just so happened to be out, looking for true believers, overheard the little boy making a  Halloween wish. His arms were wrapped around the trunk of the tree that stood outside of his bedroom window, and his left eye was already starting to swell from a fist that Alexander hadn't been quick enough to avoid.   
  
He sounded so wistful, his little heart still held some hope in it, and the Great Pumpkin just couldn't pass by without listening to what it was that the little boy wanted for Halloween. Whatever it was he wanted -- for the Great Pumpkin had peeked into the window of souls and had seen the events of Alexander's short life as though watching a reel of film, and knew what the future held for him as well -- the Great Pumpkin vowed that the little boy would get, come Hell or high water, or a severe reprimand from All Hollow's Eve himself. Still, his powers were limited, and small was the window in which he could act.   
  
"Great Pumpkin," Alexander whispered into the trunk of what he considered to be his tree, "I want a forever family. A daddy that loves me, an'...an' I wanna be a good boy, so I don't get hit no more."

The little boy’s prayer traveled up the trunk of the tree, out to the end of one of the branches, and lit on a leaf, which fell from the tree and tumbled down toward the ground, but was picked up by the wind, and carried off to the spirit of the Great Pumpkin himself, who collected it, and tucked it away with the other hopeful prayers of little boys and girls who believed in him.

Much as with Linus, the Great Pumpkin’s presence went undetected by Xander, but that didn’t deter the little boy from sending up a little prayer to him every year until he had grown up to become a young man.

By the time that the Great Pumpkin could finally act, he had a pocketful of autumn leaves that held Xander’s prayers within their desiccated veins, and Xander was a grown man. Every year the leaves whispered to him, and, coupled with the wish of a young girl who had the simplest of beliefs, not in the Great Pumpkin, or the magic that she knew to be real, but in the young, hurting man, himself, and in something bigger than the both of them (all of them really) -- the power of love.

The Great Pumpkin smiled to himself, the gaps in his jaggedly patterned teeth shining a yellow gold as light crept forth into the night, and he granted the boy’s prayers, as well as the girl’s wish. He crumpled the leaves, and let the wind carry their remnants into the dark of night where they swirled and whirled and created a miniature tornado that carried the prayers and the wish, made in love. The wind howled, a cat hissed and the Great Pumpkin’s light went out as his power was dispersed. 

“It is done,” he said, and then he disappeared into thin air, his laughter trailing behind him like the crackle of bonfires.

 


	2. Destiny, Perhaps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a prophecy, an infant, and a trip through time, and Spike wonders what is and what is not real, and if it matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not set in any particular season, and is AU.

Spike scowled and brought the unlit cigarette to his lips, only to crush it in his hand and toss it to the floor as he paced back and forth in front of Angel’s couch. 

Angel gave him a weary, blurry-eyed look, and patted the couch seat to the right of him. The left side of the couch was already occupied. “Come, sit down, Spike, before you wear a path in the floor.”

Spike walked back toward the couch, but not to sit. Instead, he stopped in front of the couch, just to the left of Angel, and leaned down to take a closer look at what had him so ill-at-ease. 

At first glance, it wasn’t anything overly profound. It was definitely not something worth the notice of one, let alone two, souled vampires. It was positively minuscule, and yet, looking at it, Spike felt nothing but unease, and a strange longing to hold it in his arms and keep it safe. Spike bristled at the thought, and his scowl deepened. He did not  _ do _ cuddly, and he certainly did not coddle, and he was definitely not a warm, fuzzy feelings kind of vampire, souled or not.

The words of the prophetess -- an elderly, blind woman who’d accosted Spike and Angel on the street a week ago as they were on their way back to the hotel -- echoed in his head as he peered down at the ‘package’ that had been dropped off on their doorstep an hour ago. 

Victims of a ding dong ditch, there was only a short note indicating where the ‘package’ had come from, and nothing that would have been useful, like instructions for what to do with it, or how to take care of it. 

_ I’m sorry,  _ the note read,  _ I couldn’t think of what else to do, who else to give him to, and I can’t really even begin to explain, except to say that I made a wish, and I guess, when he was just a kid, Xander made a wish, too (don’t even ask, the demon/angel/Great Pumpkin Spirit wouldn’t explain it to me). And maybe it was foolish, but it didn’t feel foolish at the time. Please take care of him. I want him to have a better life, so (apparently) does the Great Pumpkin (that’s what he/it called itself). I want him to know love. ~ Dawn  _

_p.s. Don’t tell Buffy, or Willow, they won’t understand._

‘Handle with care,’ Spike thought as he narrowed his eyes at the ‘package’.

He didn’t know what to make of the Great Pumpkin (whoever the hell that was) granting wishes years after the fact, and only when combined with the wish of another. He’d never even heard of the Great Pumpkin before reading that note, and a quick Google search on his phone had rendered strange results. He’d have to sit down, once he got his head wrapped around at least some of what was happening, and watch the whole video, rather than the clip that he’d watched of something called,  _ It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown. _

He speared the infant with a look, as though it held all of the answers that he sought. It didn’t. It looked fragile, and vulnerable, and far too breakable for Spike’s liking. Like one of those butterflies pinned to a board, wings thinned out over time; just a touch and the entire thing would disintegrate before his eyes. For some reason, Spike didn’t want to break this ‘package’ that had been entrusted, for whatever crazy reason, to Angel and him, rather than to Buffy or Willow, or someone more responsible than they were. 

Spike shook his head, and moved away from the couch. Angel sighed, and Spike could not understand how his Sire (in a manner of speaking) could be so calm about the whole thing. 

He thought back to that night, a week ago, on Halloween, to the crazy old woman-- long, gray hair that fell in greasy, tangled strands down past her waist; milky white eyes; thin, wrinkled face; gnarled, bony fingers; hooked nose (she looked nothing like a pumpkin, great or otherwise) -- and her words, given to her directly from the stars (much in the way of Drusilla). The prophecy was far easier to understand than those of Spike’s lost, dark princess had ever been, and yet it still confounded Spike -- not because of the way that it had been worded, but because of what the prophecy meant. Spike wasn’t worthy of it, even with a soul. 

_ At the moon’s first quarter, when the stars shine bright, hope shall be born, again, and you, the fiery sword  _ (she’d ‘looked’, unseeing, at Spike, raised a crooked finger and pointed at him) _ and the champion of light  _ (she’d turned to Angel and nodded, and poked him in the chest with the same bony finger she’d used to point at Spike) _ , bound together by entwined souls and destinies, shall raise the child many will call the White Knight. You know him. You will recognize him, not by his form, for it shall be changed in accordance with she who so wishes it, but by the energy that he possesses. Back in time you shall travel, not to undo, but to do, and to fix that which can be fixed, and to leave alone that which should be left alone, for even those who are given a second, or a third, or a fourth chance at life, should know to leave well enough alone. _

She’d reached out and grabbed Spike’s left, and Angel’s right wrists, and pushed their hands together until they touched, palm to palm. There was a spark, a flash of white-blue light, and the scent of sulfur and brimstone hung in the air, and then, mesmerized and frozen in place, Spike watched as a band of bright, yellow light wound around his, and then Angel’s ring fingers, binding them with some kind of old, earth magic. His heart, old and long since dead, beat for several painful seconds, and then stopped, and Spike could see, by the startled and panicked look on Angel’s face, that the same thing had happened to him. 

The prophetess had let go of their wrists, and smiled at them; wrinkled and almost toothless, she looked far more harmless than Spike knew, instinctively, she was. She’d patted Spike’s and then Angel’s cheek.  _ It is done.  _ Her words had echoed in Spike’s mind, and reverberated throughout the entirety of his body. He’d blinked, and she was gone, almost as though she’d never been there in the first place.

Brought back to the present by a hand on his wrist and a tiny mewling sound, Spike shook himself, and glared at Angel, who dropped his hand away. 

Spike crouched, and stared at the ‘package’, a squirming bundle that was lying beside Angel. It was a living, breathing, teeny tiny infant. It had dark, wavy hair that poked out of the pile of clothing that it had been ensconced within by a rather fatherly Angel. It had the smallest arms and legs that Spike could ever remember seeing, though, well, he was never one to drink and tell, and those days -- prior to the procurement of his soul -- were long gone, and, happily, now that he had the soul, forgotten. 

As he watched the infant, its small nose scrunched up, and Spike dared not make a sound lest he wake it. Its little mouth -- bowed, lips shaped just like a heart -- opened, and a pink tongue slipped out, seeking something, and Spike rocked back on his heels, eyes darting over to Angel in panic. 

“It’s waking up,” Spike said. He’d never been more terrified of anything in his life, which was saying something. 

“He,” Angel corrected, voice soft and fond as he reached for the bundle of clothing and infant, and pulled it up into his arms, cradling it against his chest. 

“He, not it, Spike,” he said, eyes bright with something that Spike could not yet feel past the paralyzing fear of messing things up, of being no better than any of the father-like figures from his past who’d helped to shape his life, not for the better, but for the worse, Angelus among them. 

“Here,” Angel said, holding the now awake, mewling mess of humanity out for Spike to take. 

The child’s eyes were just as Spike remembered them, from when they’d belonged to the man the child used to be before whatever wish Dawn, former key, now ordinary, annoying at times, teenager, and they boy, had made. The eyes were still a dark, chocolate brown with flecks of gold. 

The infant seemed to be looking at him, brows furrowing in some kind of thought that quickly faded as it waved its limbs in the air, and gurgled, waiting for Spike to take it, so that it wouldn’t be dangling in mid-air, lower half unsupported, from Angel’s hands.

Spike shook his head, and backed away, but Angel thrust the infant at him, expertly following his cowardly backward movements, until Spike’s back was to the wall, and he had nowhere else to go, nothing else to do, other than take the thing from Angel. 

‘Persistent bastard,’ Spike thought unkindly, though when he looked at the infant that he held, awkwardly, because he’d never truly held an infant before (at least none that he hadn’t drained of blood, and there was no need to be careful with his food, because it wouldn’t survive whether or not its spine was intact) he changed his almost perpetual scowl into something a little softer.

The infant smiled. Spike blinked. He remembered the odd pounding of his heart when the old prophetess had touched him, and felt that same pain again. A pain that warmed him from the inside out. A pain which, now that he was able to really think about it, wasn’t precisely pain, but rather a sensation he hadn’t felt properly in over a century. 

_ Love. _

Spike lifted his gaze to meet Angel’s, and was not surprised to see that his Sire (even if he wasn’t the vampire that made him, Angelus was, in all ways that mattered -- good and bad -- the vampire that had ‘raised’ him) was already there, in love with the infant, maybe even with Spike, and had been well before Spike had realized what everything -- the prophecy, the light that bound them together in destiny and soul, Dawn’s, and Xander’s, apparent wish, and the delivery -- meant. 

Spike held the infant closer, tucked him (not it) safely within the crook of his arm, like he’d seen people do on television, it felt right. He swallowed past a lump of dryness in his throat. The infant was watching him with keen, brown eyes that seemed to shine, even in the relative darkness of the room that he and Angel shared. 

“Think...” Spike stopped, swallowed, licked his lips, and tore his gaze away from the infant’s eyes to meet Angel’s. The older vampire’s look was fond, and loving, not mocking, like Spike half expected it to be. 

“Think we should call him, Xander?” Spike asked, unsure, though, as the prophetess had said they would, he recognized the youth who’d liked to tease and torture him with his wicked wit, borne no doubt of anger, and abuse. 

Angel smiled, and nodded, and sat down beside Spike, shoulders touching. “Xander William-Liam Pratt,” Angel said, glancing sidelong at Spike for permission to use the name he’d long ago abandoned in favor of the one he used now.

Spike considered the name as he looked down at the infant, at Xander Harris made young again, and wondered about the part of the prophecy that would send them back in time, and if it would be wise to saddle the kid with such a name. A name that would always be a reminder of who he and Angel had once been. 

“We’ll need a surname,” Angel said, and then he amended, “he’ll need a surname.”

“What about...Spangel?” Spike mused aloud, fusing their names together, even as he smiled down at the now gurgling infant. 

“Xander Spangel?” Angel questioned dubiously, and he shook his head, laughed, and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “We’re supposed to give the kid a better life...” he said, leaving the rest of his thought dangling. 

Spike laughed, and the infant -- Xander, Xan -- smiled, and waved his arms and legs in the air. 

“Xander William-Liam Spangel,” he tested the name out on his tongue. The infant -- Xan -- pumped his little fists in the air, and made a sound that was half gurgle, half mewl. It sounded to Spike like an agreement, no matter what Angel said to the contrary. 

“Angel and Spike Spangel?” Angel shook his head.

“William, Liam, and Xander Spangel,” Spike said, decided, even as he made funny faces at the happy infant he was holding. 

Angel laughed, the sound was lighter than any Spike could remember coming from the typically broody vampire in decades. It made Spike feel a little lighter, too, in spite of everything.

Angel slung an arm across Spike’s shoulders, and, together, they looked down at the infant, at Xander, the bundle of joy that they’d, thanks to the combination of two wishes, made at least a decade apart, have the pleasure of raising, no matter how crazy it all was.

White light engulfed them, and Spike saw his life, and...not his life, pass before his eyes. He saw a life with Angel, and Xander, play out in fast-forward -- Xander taking his first shaky steps, a look of intense concentration on his face as he made his way from Spike to Angel's open arms; Xander learning how to ride a bike, scraping his knee, Angel kissing it to make it better; Xander’s first day of school, waving and smiling back at his fathers who watched from the safety of windows that blocked the sunlight; Xander’s first date; graduation; off to college; a wedding -- and he saw all the blood and gore and pain and horror as his former life, the one he was leaving behind for good (he hoped) pass before his eyes, and he saw a glimpse of the hope of which the old prophetess had spoken. It was overwhelming; it was beautiful.

The light cut off, Xander cried (a quiet, mewling sound), and Angel sang something in Gaelic to him. They were sitting together in a bed, plaid covers up to their waists, Xander nestled within Spike's arms. Xander was wearing a pair of blue footie pajamas with a Superman shield emblazoned on it. There was a little cape attached to the back. There was a half consumed bottle of...formula...on the bedside table, within easy reach, and a crib in the corner of the room, but Spike had the notion that Xander slept with them, in spite of advice to the contrary. 

The bedside alarm clock was flashing 12:00, and Spike had the vaguest of notions that one of them should reset it, but couldn’t bring himself to speak. 

He didn’t know how he knew it, but that white flash of light -- the stream of memories of events that had, and had not yet happened -- had somehow transported them back in time, and given him memories of watching Xander being wheeled into the nursery by a nurse after his mother had given birth, of holding Angel’s hand so hard that he’d nearly crushed it, of bundling the little baby up in three blankets, and bringing him home to...somewhere safely outside of Sunnydale. Of several months of late nights spent rocking, and singing, and feeding, and burping, and changing Xander’s nappies. 

For the first time he could clearly remember, Spike felt at peace, and for a moment, he wondered if he’d died, and if this was heaven, or what passed for heaven for someone like him. 

“This is real,” Angel said after he’d finished singing. 

He reached across Spike, plucked the bottle from the table, and placed the nipple in Xander’s mouth. The little boy placed pudgy hands on either side of the bottle, eyes locked on Angel’s as he drank, greedily, from the bottle, making happy little grunting noises. 

“Is it?” Spike asked. 

Xander wriggled, a sturdy weight in his arms, and Spike smiled down at him, a little befuddled, and happier than he’d been in recent memory.

“As real as anything we’ve experienced in our lifetimes,” Angel said, and he ran a thumb over Xander’s forehead, smoothing out the little wrinkles of deep concentration there -- eating was serious work after all.

“You’re not in danger of losing your soul, are you?” Spike asked, cradling Xander a little closer to his chest. 

The memories of caring for an infant Xander with Angel right there in the thick of it, for all that they felt real, had to have been fabricated, the work of the Great Pumpkin, or the prophetess, or some demigod, or plain old magic. All of it could, of course (and probably should) be a dream. He could close his eyes, open them, and be holding onto nothing, staring off into a dark abyss of one of the many hell dimensions, or the dark abyss that was his life on Earth.

Angel gave him a puzzled look, brows furrowed much as Xander’s were as he concentrated on draining the bottle of every last drop of formula. He frowned at Spike, and shook his head, twining their fingers together, he brought them up to his lips and kissed Spike’s knuckles.

“Did you have that nightmare again?” he asked.

Spike felt as though he’d been sucker-punched, and he blinked at Angel, who looked hurt, and worried, and...kissable. Spike searched his Sire’s (no, lover’s) face, and was swamped with dizzying memories of months and years, and of pledging his life, his soul, his undead heart, to Angel, of marriage, and of adopting a baby.

He wasn’t sure which life was real, which life wasn’t real, and what exactly was going on, and how Angel could hold his hand so gently and press kisses into Spike’s palm while feeding an infant Xander -- their son -- as though they’d been at this for longer than half a day. 

“Spike, it’s time to let go,” Angel said, voice whisper soft. 

Xander sucked and slurped at the bottle, which was almost empty, and Spike, even though this was the first time that he’d really experienced it, had a memory of what happened when Xander finished his bottles, knew that he’d need to grab the burping cloth off the nightstand, and hold the little boy up at his shoulder, rub little circles in his back to coax the gas bubbles out. 

It was a scary knowledge to have, and yet, when the bottle emptied, and Xander’s last suck of the nipple rendered nothing but air, the little boy’s face scrunched up unhappily, and before he could even attempt to cry, Angel was pulling the bottle away, and Spike was lifting him to his shoulder, burp cloth in place, as though it was all second nature.

“My soul is intact, so is yours,” Angel said, keeping his voice quiet in deference to the little boy who was almost asleep on Spike’s shoulder. 

“This is real,” he repeated, and for some reason, Spike believed him.

“Just, let go of the past, let go of what you think you know, and be present in the moment,” Angel advised. 

He sounded nothing like he had when Spike last remembered him, before the prophetess, before Dawn ditching an infant on their doorstep, before traveling back in time. He sounded as happy, as at peace, as Spike (in spite of his confusion, which was starting to fade into the background as he did what Angel said...let go) felt. 

“So, this is our life now?” Spike asked. “Nappies and spit up and...”

Angel cut off the rest of his words with a kiss that made Spike forget what he’d been worried about, made him almost forget his name. 

“This is our life now,” Angel said, holding Spike’s gaze, eyes filled with what looked like hope, and love, and happiness. 

“Okay,” Spike said, and he smiled when Angel returned to his spot beside him, fingers still entwined with Spike’s. 

Xander was a heavy warmth on his shoulder, the little boy’s breath tickling Spike’s neck as he snored, pudgy little fingers holding onto a lock of Spike's hair. Spike wondered if, once he fell asleep and woke, he’d have the memories of the prophetess in L.A., of Dawn, of everything that had occurred before this moment, and, as he closed his eyes, Angel already asleep beside him, he decided that it didn’t matter what tomorrow held, because he was holding one of the most precious gifts of all in his arms, and he was being held in the arms of one of the loves of his life. It was odd, and yet it wasn't. It was, perhaps, destiny. 


End file.
